The Perfect Son
by Shelly LeBlanc
Summary: The green-eyed monster has taken up residence in the brainy turtle brother and it has set its sights on the eldest brother, the best ninja, the perfect son. Part of the Promises Made/Debts Paid universe. Rated for unintentional self-injury.


AN: This is a prequel/interlude for my long NaNoWriMo novel Promises Made/Debts Paid, which the second part is currently being posted. You may read this first if you life, and the move onto it or vise versa. I just felt it was important that you guys had a look into Don's behavior, both towards Leo and how he handles his anger issues. Donnie…well, I would sometimes say he's the most emotionally constipated of the bunch. He's remarkably level-headed, and quiet, and gentle and not prone to bouts of emotion that his brothers *cough*Raph*cough* show. And this is so weird considering all this bad shit has happened to him. As a very logical turtle, I see him as someone who tries to logic his way out of feeling things, bottling them away until he can analyze them. Sometimes, I think, he lets them fester for too long that he forgets that they are there. Then they just build and build and build until it is time to explode. It is a turtle-tots story.

Beta'd by the wonderful Kamerer220.

The Perfect Son

-o-

The green-eyed monster has taken up residence in the brainy turtle brother and it has set its sights on the eldest brother, the best ninja, the perfect son. Part of the Promises Made/Debts Paid universe.

-o-

Donatello was furious. That morning's practice had been the worst one yet, in his opinion, with him not being able to get his kicks high enough to hit the bag Splinter that hung from the ceiling for them to practice on instead of each other. They were rowdy and rough tumbling nine-year-olds, they got bruises and scrapes just by being kids. Splinter didn't want them to gain any more needlessly.

The exercise was supposed to simulate kicking someone in the head/shoulder area, and how to do it safely and swiftly. The point was to knock out an opponent so that they could get away quickly, but Don's foot could barely reach the bottom of the bag much less make a connecting hit that would allow him to escape anywhere. It didn't help that Raph and Mikey would snicker in the corner, after having successfully kicked the bag five and six times, respectfully. Nor did the fact that Donnie's lungs burned still from his latest bout of the flu help at all in achieving the right jumping height. It was all he could do to not cough up a lung after the first try. And to top it all off, Leonardo's look of pity directed at him made him more annoyed than their other brothers' snickers had. Leo had followed Don's only two measly tries with a perfect kick on his first attempt. Not even speedy and nimble Mikey did that.

Don was just so tired of being sick, of being the last to be able to get the katas and lessons his father tried to teach them, and knowing that he will never be good enough in his father's eyes as his brothers were. Especially Leonardo. Leo was the perfect student, the perfect ninja.

The perfect son.

Jealous ate at the heart of the usually amicable son, and it colored his vision to a dark 'envy' green. His stomach was sour for it and he could barely stand standing side-by-side with his brother, who looked so enraptured at everything their father said and did. Donnie bit his tongue against the hate speech he felt bubbling up from his vocal cords, the need to express his distaste was starting to consume him and he only heard the rushing of his hot blood instead of what Master Splinter was telling them. He knew he would probably pay his lack of attention later, but at that moment, Donnie couldn't care less. If he didn't get out of there soon, he would explode like supernova and he was afraid that everyone would be caught in the black hole that it would create. Mercifully, Splinter finally bowed down, signally the end of their morning session. Traditionally, his pupils were supposed to give a low, deep bow and hold it for a moment before they were released, but Don couldn't even pull that off. His bow was more like a jerking head movement with his waist barely moving before he was already upright and rushing from the dojo with a speed that was unusual for the calm turtle. He left so quickly he didn't see Leonardo's surprised and confused face, nor Splinter's worried one. Michelangelo and Raphael alone were left unaffected by Don's hasty departure, for they had been too preoccupied with their own thoughts of their plans to race the toy cars that had been scavenged. Don ran out of the dojo, past the living room and kitchen, even bypassing his own little work area before escaping out the front door of their lair. While it wasn't strictly forbidden for them to leave the lair as long as they remained in eyeshot of the front door, the turtles usually waited for their father's express permission before exiting their home. Don couldn't stop to even inquire about his "outside" privileges. He was too filled with anger, jealousy, hurt, and fear to contemplate anything else getting the heck out of there, pronto.

Donatello was afraid, very afraid. The emotions that were swirling around in him were so hot and heavy, and just so much of it that he didn't know what to do. Of course, he's felt anger before, whenever one of his brothers would break one of his toys or argue with him. He felt jealous frequently, also, especially in the dojo. Raph was too strong, Mikey too bouncy, and Leo just too perfect, and Don was none of those things. He felt hurt the most, though, both physical and emotional. He felt hurt when his brothers picked on him, or if Splinter would brush off his explanations, or when nobody seemed to understand half of what he said. He never felt them all at same time before, or in such large quantities. It felt like his whole body was filled to the brim with these emotions that he was tearing at the seams. He felt that if he were to cut himself right then and there, the blood would gush out instead of trickle, for his body was just so full of the pain, fury, and envy that it had nowhere else to go but out.

He saw how their family reacted when Raph would get angry and lash out. Raph was always angry, and was always trying to make the others feel exactly how he felt. It would sometimes make one of them hurt just as much as Raph claimed he was. Don didn't want that. He didn't trust himself to blow up at anybody because he didn't want to see what would happen to them if they did. He didn't want them to look at him as they sometimes looked at Raph, like he was a time bomb ready to go off.

He never wanted his family to be afraid of him. He escaped into the tunnels outside of their home, where there was nothing but debris and sewage for him to take his anger out on. He moved as far away from the lair door as he could without losing sight of it and stood for a moment, waiting for something to happen.

He didn't have to wait long. His tongue, which had been clamped down so hard on in his mouth was finally let loose, and blood and growls erupted. The growl was low at first, muffled by the blood from his bit tongue and lack of use. The sound slowly crescendoed and started to echo in the tunnels. Soon yells and words were added to it, but Don had no aforethought as to what they were nor could he actual hear himself at that point. All he could hear was the rushing blood, and all he could feel with that fury of emotions in a rush to escape now that he opened that bottle. He grabbed the nearest object in reach and flung it down the tunnel, not even waiting to see where it landed before grabbing another loose item threw that also. If it was light enough for him to hurl, it was sent flying. This continued for a minute, until he grabbed an elongated object, a pole or a stick, and instead of throwing it, he gripped the cylindrical object with both hands and started hitting the wall with it. He let out a fury of sounds, each as indistinguishable as the other, and smacked the pole harshly against the brick. There was no rhythm or finesse to his attack, he threw all thoughts of proper forms out of his head with each swing. And it felt good, to let out this monster inside of him, that had taken control of his thought and reason, that made his cold blood burn hot and his eyes so green and wet.

_Smack, smack, smack_ went the pole and brick, and it was a satisfying sound to Don's ears, who was starting to feel his blood slow down and the dull roar start to dissipate. He knew he was starting to reach the end of his reserves and soon this demon that has possessed him will be abated. But before Don could even think about calming down, the pole in his hands broke into two pieces and the loose part had already landed in the sewage before he realized what had happened. He only looked at the broken object in his hands for a moment before it was tossed in the same direction as the other thrown debris. The anger and jealousy was still built up in his system and he could not fit a cap over the spilling emotions just yet, and now he lost his only tool in aiding the releasing of the pressure. So he used the only weapon at his disposal: his hands. He turned back to the brick wall and let them fly.

The pain he felt when his fist connected to the hard brick was satisfying. It turned his emotional pain into something physical and tangible, something he could control and it made all the difference in the world. So he punched the wall again and again, allowing his knuckles to split open and to have the blood from his hands join that from his mouth in falling to the dirty floor.

He was only able to land a few more blows before he felt his hands get seized up. At first, he thought that maybe his punches had been so hard that he had gotten them stuck in the brick. That was until he registered the warm hands enclosing themselves around his already battered and bruised appendages. He choked on a surprise gasp as he saw his father pull his hands away from the wall and had them rest on the soft fabric of his robe that enclosed his chest.

"No, my son," he heard Splinter say, his voice barely heard over the roaring he still heard in his head, "I cannot allow you to hurt yourself any longer."

But Don was not done. The pain felt good. It felt like a safe haven from this raging storm inside of himself and he needed to exorcise it before it took control. He tried to pull his bloodied fists from his father's hold, but despite using all of his strength against him, Splinter was still far stronger than he was and he barely budged at Don's attempts to free himself. Don wasn't to be deterred, though, and continued his struggle. Splinter, seeing this, released his hands only to move his paws to his son's shoulders, pulling him in closer to himself. With his hands finally free, he started throwing them again, only to be met with Splinter's furry chest. A sob escaped Don's mouth at the feel of flesh under his hands rather than hard brick. Even in his enraged state, he was reluctant to try and harm another. So he stopped hitting and instead grabbed a fistful of robe and pressed his face hard against soft material and screamed. He screamed and screamed, trying to get the residual mess that was his emotions out from his body vocally now that he couldn't allow himself to do it physically. He felt his father move his hands from his shoulders then enclose around his shell and pressed him closer to him, and he still screamed. He could hear the soft words and murmurs of encouragement and calmness from his father's mouth, and he still screamed.

He screamed and he screamed until rage, fear, and pain finally faded away into a pin prick that was finally able to fit into the box that Don liked to put things when he didn't want to deal with them. Then all he had was soft, sobbing hiccoughs that caused Donnie's shoulders to raise with each bone-jarring pass through his lips. Though the screams and thrashing had finally died down, Splinter's firm presence and pressure never ceased. He held his son long after his anger degenerate, allowing his solid form to become an anchor for the torrential emotions his son was currently experiencing.

When Splinter saw his usually compliant son shoot out of the dojo after a half-hearted attempt at the ending bow, part of him wanted to be angry at the blatant disrespect his son had showed him and his brothers, but a larger part of him felt nothing but worry. This had been his son's only second training session since a long bout of illness, but it was quite obvious he was still feeling the effects of the flu that had ravaged his body. He was already weeks behind in training and was sour from it. He hadn't missed the look of envy his son had flashed his eldest when he completed his kick, nor could he ignore the way he had gnashed his teeth at the good natured ribbing from the other two. Teasing and jeering had been an everyday occurrence during training, one that Splinter was not overly fond of, but found that it promoted a sense of realism in their fights. Splinter was training them to be able to defend themselves in the real world, and not every opponent his sons would face would follow the rules of fairness and leave the "trash talk" at home, as they say. This allowed his sons the ability to be able to roll the insults off their shells as they fought and become more focused fighters. It was sometimes also a great motivator, something to help push a fighter into bettering themselves.

Donatello, it appeared, wasn't taking it as such and took it to heart. So when the rest of his sons finished their bows, Splinter had exchanged a look with Leonardo, who was the only other being who had noticed Donatello's odd behavior, and followed his fleeing son out of the dojo and the lair, though at a slower pace. By the time he exited their front door, the purple-masked turtle was already at the turn in the tunnel to the left of their house, nearly out of sight. He had moved to catch up with him, to stop him from going too far, but he noticed that Donatello had stopped himself. His back was turned so Splinter could not see his face, nor could Donatello see him. He stayed and watched as his son's shoulders started to shake and a faint growling sound started to echo through the tunnels back at him. The sound, something that sounded so foreign coming out of those quiet lips, started to grow louder and stronger. Splinter quickly and quietly closed the lair door, knowing it would help muffle the sound and stop it from reaching his brothers' ears. This was an extremely private moment, and Splinter felt bad for witnessing, only his needed to ensure his son's safety and wellbeing forced himself from turning away.

He watched passively as the demonic power that had inhabited his gentle son started throwing objects and expletives at the tunnel that was hidden from Splinter's gaze. While he was shocked hear those foul words escape his son's lips, he wasn't really surprised that he knew them despite his attempts to shield them from the worst of what humanity has to offer. Besides, his son's choice in words were less of a concern to him than the rage that was currently flowing through his son like lava from a volcano, hot, swift, and damaging.

He had wondered when Donatello would break. There had been so many temper tantrums he had experienced throughout the years, from all of his sons. Raphael, of course, had the most, but those would burn bright hot for a few minutes before dying down and they were all able to move on. Michelangelo's were mostly filled with tears and sobs, but were easily abated with affection and shell rubs. Leonardo had fits of self-doubt, minor breakdowns that he would show his father and his father alone about how he felt he wasn't good enough or strong enough to be the big brother. Donatello had had such few episodes as a baby and toddler, but they were practically non-existent the past six years. Splinter had hoped that his son had just found another outlet to release his fits of anger and despair, but now he had realized that his son had just internalized his feelings until they could not be contained any longer.

Donatello's anger was like a brushfire in an area filled with dried shrubs and years of not seeing a flame. Some wildlife management would sometimes have a controlled burn, to burn part of a forest for not only ecological reasons to release nutrients back into the earth, but to also burn away hazards that would only fuel a real forest fire and turn it into something truly disastrous. If a forest cannot be cleared out of its hazardous debris, it just builds up and up until there was no way to control the blaze. That forest would only need a catalyst and it would go up in flames.

It appeared that Donatello had finally found that catalyst.

So Splinter was more than willing to let this tantrum play out, see how far and long his son would go to find relief. He bared the screams and the yells, the throwing and then the hitting with the stick. In fact, he admired the handling of the pole by his son. His grip was strong and steady, even though he lacked proper form. His son had not chosen his weapon of choice yet, though technically none of them had. He knew his other three sons had already gravitated towards their own preferences, but Splinter refused to allow anything to become official yet, wanting to make sure that his pupils were certain before making such an important decision. The weapons they choose to bring into battle would shape them in a way they wouldn't expect and Splinter wanted to avoid any unnecessary drama if they dislike the change afterwards due to a poor choice.

Then, just as it seemed his son was about to slow down, his weapon broke in hands and that too was eventually thrown with the same amount of vigor as his earlier ones. Most of the debris was now cleared from his son's area and he was running out of ammo. Expecting his son to start looking for more things to throw, he was surprised when he landed a well-placed punch at the brick wall to his left. It took a moment for Splinter to register what had happened, before he sprinted down the tunnel to his son in hopes to stop him from breaking his hands in his attempt to let out his aggression. He was finally able to grab his son's tiny fists into his hand, but he saw that the damage had already been done. Donatello had been quick in his japs, just as he had taught him, and now he was playing the price with split knuckles and bruised fingers.

If Splinter had thought catching his son's hands and thus announce his presence in a physical sense would have curbed Donatello's anger, he was sadly mistaken. The loss of his outlet only seemed to further enrage the child and he fought with all his might to be released from his father's grasp.

Finally, after a few moments of struggle, Splinter released the hands and held onto the olive green shoulders, figuring if Donatello still needed to hit something, his chest was much softer than a brick wall. He was still sturdy despite his advancing in age, he could take a beating from a storm-tossed child. But as soon as the hits came they died out and his son pressed his face against his chest and howled. It was heartbreaking to hear and witness, and sadly, Splinter could only hold his son closer until the internal storm died out, speaking soft words that he just allowed to come out naturally, and all he was left with was a hiccoughing son.

He let them stay like this for a few moments before Splinter lighten his hold, allowing Donatello to back away if needed but the child stayed resolutely still, with his hands clenched on his robes and his face pressing, now rather painfully, into his chest. He ran a furry hand on the back of his bright son's head, and let out another soft sound.

"Let us go back now, my son. It is drafty out here."

Despite his reluctance to let go, Splinter was able to move Donatello from the corner in the sewer to the front door with relative ease. By then, his son had released his hold on his robe and took a step back, but he refused to look up. Splinter could feel the waves of insecurity, shame, and fear radiating off of his son. And the anger, it was still present but not nearly at the same level as before. This, Splinter could work with.

He took his son by the shoulder and led him back into their home. They bypassed the living room, where Michelangelo and Raphael were still playing with cars. They had paused in their game to look at the pair, and when youngest looked like he was about to comment, Splinter sent them a no-nonsense look. Raphael, far more observant than he usually lets on, took in his brother's tearstained face and bloodied knuckles, and then turned to his orange-masked brother and flicked him, diverting his attention back to him.

"Ow!" the sea-green turtle exclaimed, and flicked his brother right back.

Splinter could hear their bickering as he passed them to bring his son to the bathroom. He placed the reluctant turtle on the toilet seat and opened the medicine cabinet to get the medical supplies to fix his son's hands. Donatello was quiet through the whole process, not even whimpering when the alcohol was splashed across the torn skin in an effort to clean them. Finally, after Splinter finished patching up his son's hands, he knelt down so he would be at eye level with his son's down casted eyes. His sons had grown tremendously in the past year, and he knew that they had more growing to do, but Donatello still remained the shortest of the bunch.

"My son," Splinter started, mindful to continue to use a gentle voice. He didn't want him to clam up before he even got started. "Do you want to tell me what that was all about?"

He could tell that the answer was a hard no, and that his son was extremely reluctant to even speak after the spectacle he made of himself earlier. But he also knew that his son was the wisest of them all and knew that he would not get away from not speaking about the matter. "I was angry."

Ah, Splinter should have seen that coming. His son was not as easy of a speaker as Michelangelo and Raphael, who would spill their guts at the drop of the hat, nor was he like Leonardo, who was as reluctant to speak but lacked the willfulness to try to hide behind extra words to get out of saying what he was required to say. Donatello had such a command of the English language and a stubbornness that rivaled even Raphael's, and he was now an expert at finding loopholes and ways to skirt around a query until the questioner was either forced to go into specifics or give up entirely.

Splinter knew he couldn't let this one go. The storm that had battle in his son had been powerful, and if not dealt with now, would be locked away and fester until it would eat up the gentle soul that resided in his gifted son. It would need to be defeated now before it made a hasty retreat and none of them would be able to reach it.

"I realize that my son, but why were you angry?"

Donatello still resolutely refused to look at him, keeping his chin resting tightly against his chest. So Splinter leaned forward, getting into his son's space so he could get his son to look at him. He refused to try and physically get the turtle to look at him, allowing him some control over the situation. The wet eyes flickered up to meet Splinters for a second before he quickly brought them down and to the side. More moments of silence were shared in the tiny bathroom before Donatello took a deep breath.

"I am weak." The voice was small and full of shame. Splinter's heart broke at it. His first instincts was to reassure his son, to assure him that he wasn't weak, that he was strong in his own way. The fight that he had just shown with the debris and the wall showed Splinter how strong his son really was. Those objects had flew far and he had hurt his hands considerably with only a few punches. But he knew they would only sound like platitudes and would not have gotten them anywhere. He still needed to get to the heart of the matter.

"Why do you think you are weak?" Splinter asked, placing his warm hand on his son's cool knee. Donatello still refused to look at him, but he didn't balk at the touch.

"Because I can't be a ninja like the others," Donatello said, his voice choking at the admission. "They are so good at it and I'm so lousy." The young turtle turned his head completely away from Splinter and looked at the tub to his left. "I can't even kick a bag."

Splinter knew that they were getting closer to the heart of the matter, but he still felt there was something hiding. But he decided to try and tackle what he could address.

"You are a very capably ninja, my son. If this is about your performance today, do not be so hard on yourself. You are still recovering from a very taxing illness and are not at one hundred percent. I had not expected you to achieve your stamina so quickly, nor am I asking you to be perfect on every attempt. Wasn't it you who told me that scientists often find that it is in making the mistakes that allows them to find the right way to discover things?" Donatello nodded slightly, sniffing harshly. "You will catch up, my son. Your brothers had weeks to perfect some of the moves you performed today."

"But Leo did the kick right the first try!" Was Donatello's passionate exclaim and it appeared they finally reached the crux of Donatello's problem. That envy he had caught in his son's eyes had not been a fluke.

There was so much of this son that Splinter could not understand. Mentally, Donatello was light years ahead of any being Splinter has had the pleasure or displeasure of meeting. Truly, this quiet son of his had a mind that many of the universes top thinkers would be envious of and that his gifts would make this world and others much better. Emotionally, Donatello was as gentle as a summer breeze, unerringly kind and selfless to a fault. No one could calm Raphael's worst tempers without flaring up themselves like him, give Michelangelo the attention he so desperately craves without asking for any in return, nor allows Leonardo to have someone to lean on than this son. Almost everything that was functional in their home was because of both of his son's gifts and he was truly wonder that Splinter couldn't even comprehend where he needed to start to try and get through to a son so unlike himself.

But that green-eyed monster that was currently eating up his son was something Splinter was all too well aware. It gave the mutated rat a much needed advantage to try and get through to this lost son.

"I see," Splinter said, his voice still soft and it caused his son to turn his head slightly and look at him out of the corner of his eyes. "You believe that your brother perfects all of his moves on the first try?"

Don's eyes narrowed slightly before nodding. The dojo had always been filled with praise for the eldest turtle, and normally, he wouldn't mind it at all. He knew that they all had strengths and weaknesses. But sometimes, like today, it was just too much.

Splinter remained silent for a moment, using the hand that was not resting on his son's knee to stroke his chin in thought. Finally, he released both his chin and his child's knee and lifted himself up. "Donatello, I would like you to follow me, if you please."

It sounded like a mere request, but even Donatello's own proclivity for rule lawyering knew that it was a nicely worded command and only paused a moment before hopping off of the toilet seat and followed his father out of the bathroom. They passed up the bedrooms before moving to the closed door of the dojo. Expecting that they were going to enter, Donatello looked up questioning at Splinter when he merely stopped at the door and only opened the screen doors slightly. The ninja master motioned his son to look through the crack he had created and Don's natural curiosity had him follow the command immediately.

Inside, he could see his eldest brother performing a kata. It was one that Don was not too familiar with, and was sure it was one that Splinter had taught in his absence. He felt that bubble of anger rise again, but quickly pushed it down, trying to concentrate on what Splinter was trying to teach him. Because of course his father was going to teach him a lesson. That's what his father did.

As he watched the smooth and deliberate moves Leo made, he wondered if the lesson Splinter was trying to teach him that he had been right about his assessment, because that was what it looked like.

Then, unexpectedly, as Leo was going for a high kick, one very similar to the one he had demonstrated perfectly earlier in practice, he turned wrong and landed on his side rather than his foot. Donnie had flinched, because that looked painful, but Leo only stayed on the ground for a moment to collect himself before he got up and dusted himself off. Don thought his brother was going to try the kick again. He had gotten into the position as if he was going to do it again, but as he bent his knees as if he was about to lift, he stayed in that position for a few moments and started chanting something softly to himself. Don could barely hear what he was saying so he leaned a little closer, his hands pressed against the slightly open door.

"Bend, then twist," Leo was saying, over and over again. He'd then straightened his knees before bending them again, over and over. After a few times, he would back up and start to lead up to the point where he would do the kick, but stop just before executing it. Each time, he would back up further and further until he reached the beginning of the kata and just repeat it over and over again, always stopping right before he would actually do the kick. Finally, after maybe the fifth time he did it, Leo finally followed through, and the kick was as perfect as it should have been.

But Leo hadn't seemed satisfied, for while the kata should have continued on to another move, he stopped and started the whole process over again, starting from where he got into position to do the kick and working backwards from there.

Donatello just stood there, looking at the long process his brother put himself through to perfect his moves. Splinter saw that the message had already begun to seep into his son's gifted brain, but he felt the need to reiterate the message verbally, and make sure it stuck.

"As you can see, Leonardo tries very hard to make sure that his moves are perfect. He practices and practices to get each movement to get it exactly as I have taught them. Like you, and unlike your two other brothers, they do not come to him naturally. He is creating muscle memory, a way to be able to pull those moves out of himself when he needs it without thinking." Splinter watched a few moments, taking in his son's form before continuing. "Leonardo is a perfectionist and very hard on himself when he cannot get something perfect. He tries very, very hard to appear that everything he does is effortless because he that is exactly how he wants to be viewed. He does not have your brothers' natural instincts to fight, nor does he have your natural talent at memorization and determination. You only need to see a move once to know exactly what you need to do to achieve it, and even though your body does not cooperate with you in executing it, your fortitude allows you to push through it until you do. He has to create all that himself."

Don didn't say anything, he just continued to watch his brother with a pensive look on his face. Splinter placed a hand back onto his shoulder and the turtle finally looked up, his eyes now dry and clear. "So, do not be too hard on Leonardo for trying to be perfect. And most of all, do not be hard on yourself for your perceived faults and weaknesses. You are stronger than you seem, and what your body refuses to let you do, your willpower more than makes up for it."

His son continued to peer up at him for a moment before he nodded at him. Don turned back to the door of the dojo and squared his shoulders before he opened it just wide enough to fit himself in. He walked into the room with determination that did his father's heart some good and went to sit at the edge of the mat and watched his brother practice his kata.

Leo had only faltered momentarily when he realized he had an audience, but quickly got back into the correct form before turning his head to his younger brother. He gave an encouraging smile at Donatello and Splinter was glad to see that it was returned before Leo turned his full attention back on his exercise. Splinter only stayed a few more moments to observe his two quiet sons before he closed the dojo door and walked away. He knew that this was probably not the end of Donatello's envy of his older brother's abilities, nor did he think it was the end of his self-doubts, but it was a large leap in the right direction. Until then, he would head to the kitchen. He was in much need of some tea after all of this.

-o-

AN2: Thank you so much for reading this. I hope you guys aren't sick of me posting.

This will be the first and last interlude. That is to say no other story in this universe will be posted before the end of Debts Paid. And yes, that is implying that there may be more stories written, in the future. I have a plot bunny that is very much along the lines of this story, and it's how each brother deals with or at least reveals their envy of another brother.


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